


Wires

by shittershutter



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-08
Updated: 2015-03-08
Packaged: 2018-03-17 00:47:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3508877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shittershutter/pseuds/shittershutter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kozik is a former drug addict, Tig is a full-time sociopath, and it’s a match made in heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wires

**Author's Note:**

> * Violent sex is involved. A lot of cursing, as well. 
> 
> * Unbetad.

“Made him my bitch, no shame in that,” Tig mumbles into his glass and Bobby just laughs at him, that Santa Claus on meth kind of laughter vibrating through the air. 

“Fuck you, you should’ve seen him 20 years ago. He was like Pam Anderson with a dick. Blond hair, blue jeans, sunny smile...” Tig is lost in space and time for a moment. Across the universal continuum a younger, hotter Kozik is calling for him with a big, calendar girl grin on his face. 

When a real physical manifestation of Kozik crosses the room and opens its whore mouth to say something, he punches it immediately, the movement fluid and natural, because this is how their greeting rituals go lately.

Kozik attempts to walk away from it, little bitch that he is. It never fails to make the wires inside Tig’s skull buzz funny when the fucker turns his back on him so easily, so trustingly, like he is not a tiny bit stressed, like there will be no blow to follow. 

Like he trusts Tig. 

And then, as they fall into the room in the back where Kozik is staying, punches flying, teeth clicking, Kozik doesn’t look surprised at all. 

“Can’t say I missed this,” the fucker hisses, a smile audible in his voice. 

“Aw, of course you did, honey. Like you don’t take your ass to bed, fingering yourself, whining my name like a little faggot bitch you are,” Tig spits out, lunging, but there is a fold in the carpet he trips over, falling again. 

“Sometimes I do,” Kozik agrees, still talking with that rational voice of his that makes Tig completely, blindingly mad. “Sometimes I don’t,” his voice is closer. His fist, rings and all, collides with Tig’s kidneys. 

“And are you seriously trying to hurt my feelings with all the faggot shit?” he turns Tig over and strikes his solar plexus the moment his hands start clawing the air, trying to grab him. He’s much stronger; Tig would never try to pretend otherwise. Tig himself is a better fighter, dirty tricks down his sleeves and all the hands-on prison experience, but when it comes to blunt force, Kozik is built like a motherfucking brick house. There’s no point kicking and scratching against him. 

Kozik straddles his legs, pinning him, face close, so close that Tig hopes he can burn the flesh off it with his breath that feels like a pepper spray in his throat right now. He goes for the bite, but Kozik reads the move before it ever happens, leaning back. 

“You _saw_ me, Tiggy. And I _saw_ you.” he continues, laughter gone from his voice. “And you can’t take it back, no matter what happens between us.”

Tig stops moving altogether, Gemma’s favorite green carpet against his busted organs, relaxing. It is a part of the escape maneuver, but relaxation does its metaphysical trick or some shit, and he suddenly gets it. 

He sees Kozik from the past again, dark circles around his eyes, his hands fixed firmly to the hospital bed. “I’m having a relapse,” past Kozik says, voice barely distinguishable under all the machinery beeping. It has that irritating twelve-stepper I-understand-and-accept-everything-but-I’d-be-fucked- if-I-knew-what-to-do-about-it tone to it. “It may kill me, Tiggy”. The dry sob that hangs between them then is so full of pain and despair that it makes Tig throw himself against the other man, nuzzling his face against the tracks on the skin, fresh and old, red, blue and rotting black. “No, no, no... “ he whimpers, and if the salt of his tears irritates the damaged flesh, Kozik does not mention it. 

The present Kozik rubs the blood, saliva and crumbled teeth -- God, let there be some crumbled teeth -- into his stubble, looking deep in thought like there is no Tig fuming like a full-blown fireworks factory explosion right in front of him. He nods to whatever little idea pops in his retarded head and yanks his jacket off, standing up. So Tig thinks maybe there is round two scheduled, cracking his knuckles in excited anticipation until after a beat or two it hits him that Kozik keeps undressing. 

Fucking Kozik. He got bigger, everywhere. Hard muscle and faded ink, pale skin, dotted with freckles and sliced with scars. Chains around his neck and rings on his fingers are clinking against each other as he moves. Tig is going through an uncomfortable array of conflicting emotions, experiencing them one by one -- sometimes two or three at the time -- and the overload pushes itself painfully against his temples from the inside, threatening to blow his skull. 

That’s how they always are together, tittering on edge between sex and murder, one slipping into the other. One of them is always aware of it, and it’s the other one who’s floored with the realization each time. Tig’s jaw moves diagonally down, exposing his bloody teeth. Kozik watches it move, his face neutral, that cocky bitch. He yanks his briefs down, leaning into Tig’s compromised personal space and slurs through the blood and the swelling: “You either do something about all this, Tiggy or get the fuck out of my face.”

He steps out of discarded underwear and gets to the bed, lowering himself on his hands and knees, head down. 

Tig follows. His hands are still in fists, ready to strike as he looks over the body before him. His kidneys demand retaliation, but his treacherous hand reaches and strokes the skin along Kozik’s spine, sliding into his hair and pushing his face deep into the mattress, hard, to smash all the pretty against the rusty springs. 

Kozik does not fight it, he never does. 

Tig spits and slicks himself marginally, just to see the slut shiver from the sound of it and slams inside. 

Kozik’s painfully tight. His body contracts chaotically around the intrusion, sucking him in and pushing him out at the same time. 

“What’s the matter, boo? Should I’ve wined and dined you first?” Tig coos gleefully, because finally, finally there are cracks in the facade. He gets smacked across the face immediately, tarantinesque blood splatters fly in every direction. And it’s either anger or the sheer force of the strike that blind him, but Tig throws himself forward and sinks his teeth in Kozik’s shoulder. The fresh blood colors his lips, getting between the teeth. Under him, Kozik spreads his legs wider to brace himself. 

Tig’s hands snake around his ribcage, clenching hard like he’s trying to squeeze the man’s heart out through his throat. He picks up speed, so brutal that it hurts him to fuck, teeth still ripping the skin as Kozik huffs measured breaths through his nose. The fucker must’ve been practicing yoga or some shit; Tig wouldn’t be surprised. He feels Kozik pushing back slightly, then more insistently, soft skin of his ass rubbing against the rough pubic hair. Yeah, that’s right, he’s gone that deep. 

He covers Kozik’s crotch with his hand, just holding the open palm against it. He feels the balls that are heavy and ready for it, the cock that leaves wet trails across the skin as it slides back and forth against Tig’s hand.

“What is it, babe? Got your panties all wet already?”

And Kozik starts to moan but ends up letting out a fit of shaky laughter. “I swear to God, Tiggy, you are fucking special…” he chuckles against his hand. 

Oh yeah, he is. Tig closes his hand around the cock, squeezing it hard, and Kozik does not laugh anymore. Tig grabs him by the throat with his other hand, squeezing his eyes shut as he does it. The wires in his head supply a beautiful visualization of him choking the man dead, social norms be damned. There should be a law or two that would allow you to kill someone if you really, really want to. What a wonderful world it would be. No one left to get under Tig’s skin or smile at him like he sees in Tig something warm, loving and beautiful...

Kozik must’ve got a lungful of air right before. It takes a good few moments before he starts to wheeze properly, that fat neck finally caving on his windpipe under pressure. Tig can’t see his face, but he can imagine it quite well: reddened sweaty skin with veins pushing desperately out on his temples and forehead. His throat is working frantically, struggling under Tig’s hand. He croaks again and comes, hard hot spurts hitting Tig’s hand to the elbow.

When Tig takes both hands away, Kozik collapses flat on the mattress, leaving him to finish inside the nearly dead body. Not exactly an unfamiliar or unpleasant experience for him. 

“Couldn’t hurt your feelings, so I tore up your ass,” Tig singsongs, expecting to get his final retort before the applause and the curtain. 

He gets a punch in the ribs instead. 

“That you did,” Kozik agrees, opening one blue eye at him. He turns over, spreads his knees and pushes his fingers down his crack, probing for damage. And even through the wincing and the hissing, the fucker has the nerve to turn to Tig and smile at him. 

“I fucking can’t stand you, I swear to God,” Tig mumbles, covering his face with both hands. 

They lie like that, in somewhat comfortable silence, and Tig thinks that maybe this will be his winning final remark this time. He’s about to congratulate himself when Happy comes in without knocking. There is a weird rubber squeak to his measured step. They stare at each other, all three of them because with Happy non-verbal communication is the key. That and being good at reading emotional undertones. 

“What the fuck, man,” Tig finally manages. He thinks he can read the mild disappointment on Happy’s face. Or maybe it’s content, you never know. 

“No bodies here,” Happy calls out to someone outside the room and leaves, a pair of rubber gloves sticking out of his back pocket. 

Tig rolls his eyes and looks down where Kozik’s hand is closed around his. He has no idea how it got there. Kozik is either asleep or pretends to be -- it’s good either way. Tig waits for a beat or two before he reaches his other hand and traces the veins running down the man’s forearm. The pulse under his fingers resonates with the wires cracking inside his head.


End file.
